


the north woods

by fuzzbucket



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Friendship, it's only sorta marta/benoit but you'll see, law and order: maine, marta needs support, ransom's on trial for everything, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzzbucket/pseuds/fuzzbucket
Summary: it's time for the trial of Hugh Ransom Drysdale. a judge has ordered the trial moved away from Boston, so everyone finds themselves in Maine for the duration.
Relationships: Benoit Blanc/Marta Cabrera, Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	the north woods

**Author's Note:**

> So! This is my attempt at a multichapter Knives Out fic. It's mostly Marta/Ransom (but some Marta/Benoit in here as well). 
> 
> This story is also kinda-sorta a sequel to my one-shot Marta/Ransom fic, in that this story assumes that Marta and Ransom had a quick and dirty fling while running from the Thrombeys.

Marta gripped the steering wheel, cold to the touch. It was May, but the Maine spring seemed to linger. Her phone shouted directions at her as she wove over hills and skirted around lakes and forests.

In the backseat, she’d thrown a suitcase. Harlan’s money hadn’t gotten her to change her ways; she was still in the Hyundai, with one suit, buying her skincare at CVS with a clipped coupon. The front passenger seat was strewn with empty potato chip bags and empty cans of Red Bull. The drive was only a few hours, but she stress-ate most of the way up 95.

It was nearing dusk when she turned into her hotel, a nice place that Alan had recommended. He wasn’t her lawyer for this – he was many things, but a criminal lawyer he was not – but he had taken on her finances and had taken to mentoring her in the ways of people with money. So, rather than the Motel 6 that was 45 minutes away right off the highway, she was staying at a nice boutique hotel a short drive from the courthouse.

“The judge moved the trial all the way in Maine; what’s another 45 minutes?”

“You won’t want to do that drive in the morning,” he’d said. “We have a lake house near there, I know a good spot.” And here she was.

She pulled into a parking space and put her car into park, not switching it off yet.

“You can’t turn around,” she murmured to herself. “You have to be here. If you leave, it ruins everything.” She took a few deep breaths, staring straight ahead, and turned the car off.

She pushed open the car door, a loud squeak emanating from the hinge. She grabbed her suitcase and purse out of the back seat and headed toward check-in.

The hotel was nice, with a modernist log cabin design, and when she rolled her suitcase to the desk she was greeted warmly by the receptionist. They made small talk as Marta passed her license and credit card over – some high-points reward card Alan had talked her into – and the receptionist raised her brow slightly.

“So we have a suite available, someone who didn’t show for a reservation last night – I can offer you the upgrade, free of charge, for the first four days of your stay; then we can move you to a standard room.”

“No, no,” Marta mumbled. “A regular room is fine.”

“By all means,” a voice behind her boomed, “you should take it.”

She knew that voice anywhere – the thick drawl, genteel and yet companionable. She turned and met his eyes. They were as sparkling and engrossing as they’d been the day they met. He was well turned-out in a jacket and no tie with blue jeans. “Mr. Blanc.”

“Marta, take the suite. You’ll need it, at least for the first few nights.” The corners of his mouth turned upward, and she felt a quick zap of anxiety.

She turned back toward the receptionist. “Sure.” The receptionist clacked away, scanned a keycard, and slid it back across the desk.

Marta palmed the card and turned around to face Benoit, whose ghost of a smile remained. “Mr. Blanc. Lovely to see you.” His eyes flashed at her, a tad unnerving.

“Marta. Call me Benoit. I’m not investigating you for murder these days.” She heard the receptionist gasp behind her, and Blanc craned his head around hers. “She was very much innocent, ma’am. Don’t worry.”

They sidestepped the desk a bit. “I assume you’re here for the same reason I am.”

“Witness, yes.” He cleared his throat, making her acutely aware that they weren’t alone in the lobby. “How long are you staying?”

She sighed. “My lawyer told me to book for two weeks, just in case. So that’s how long I’m staying.”

He _hmm_ ed, a melodic noise. “I’m here a week. Maybe longer, depending on cross-examination.”

They both heard the receptionist clear her throat, and Blanc’s lip turned up at one corner. “Just a moment, Marta.” He advanced toward the desk, checking in efficiently, at one point having a hushed, urgent conversation that Marta imagined revolved around security.

He thanked the receptionist and turned back around, facing where Marta stood. “Let me help you up to your room.” He waved away the approaching bellboy and grabbed Marta’s suitcase and headed toward the elevators.

“Mr. Blanc –“

“Benoit, please –“

“Benoit, I am more than capable of checking in and carrying my bag by myself. What’s going on?”

He cleared his throat again as they stepped on the elevator. He hit the button for the third floor – where she was staying – and whacked the “door close” button a few times for good measure.

As the doors slid shut and the elevator began to move, he hit the emergency stop button.

“Benoit!” Marta felt anxiety and nausea pile up in her throat, clawing upward.

“I need to tell you a few things. First: several of the Thrombeys are here, or will be. I told the hotel to keep them off your floor.”

Marta nodded dumbly. She knew this was a possibility – how many good hotels were there in Castle Rock? – but hadn’t wanted to think about it.

“Second, I told them not to give your name and room number to anyone. Anyone.”

“Don’t you know it?” She looked him dead in the eyes, and he flushed.

“Well, yes. But anyone else.”

She laughed at that, his little smile giving her goosebumps.

“Third. One of those Thrombeys might be Ransom.”

A chill down her spine, a lump in her throat. “I have a restraining order. Isn’t he in pre-trial detention?” 

Blanc shook his head. “He _was_ in pre-trial detention, but I’m fairly certain a few palms have been greased to let him in here with his family with an ankle monitor for the duration of the trial. Also, the hotel is big enough. I have a feeling that’s why they put you in the suite. I think it’s the farthest away from where he might be.”

“Should I leave? Should I go somewhere else?”

Benoit shook his head again. “No. I’m staying next door to you, and the local cops are everywhere. I would recommend you get some security while you’re here.”

Marta nodded. “They start tomorrow morning. Should I call them, get them here early?”

Once more, he shook his head. “I think tomorrow morning is fine.” She hadn’t noticed that they’d crept toward each other in the elevator, and were a mere foot away from one another. He reached out, hesitantly, and ran his hand down her arm. “You’re going to be okay, Marta.” 

His touch – warm and gentle – was the anti-Ransom. She leaned into it for a moment before she remembered herself. “Thank you, Benoit.” He reached behind her and hit the emergency stop button again, getting the elevator to start back up. It dinged on the third floor and they exited.

“Have you been to Maine before, Marta?” 

“No, never,” she mumbled. “First time.”

“It’s beautiful,” he replied, his voice still strong and clear. “If you need to clear your head, there are lots of places to do it. State’s mostly empty.”

She laughed at that, a hollow noise, but a laugh nonetheless. “Thanks for letting me know.”

They arrived at their doors – right next to one another.

“Marta, I’d feel more comfortable if you’d let me check it out in there first.”

“By all means.” Benoit’s presence was a comfort – a layer of armor she desperately needed. He poked around the room, checking under the bed, in drawers, behind the shower door. The coast was clear.

“I’m going to ask the hotel to post someone up in the hallway, just for tonight. Can’t be too careful.”

Marta sighed. “I guess that’s smart.” She sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. Benoit studied her from across the room. 

“Marta, would you like to grab dinner across the street in a bit? My treat.”

She kept her eyes on the floor, scared that she would throw up or cry. “Yes. I’d like that.” As long as he was near, he could protect her. She felt kind of selfish, using him in this way, but he’d more or less asked for it.

“Okay. I’ll see you in a bit.” And with that, he hoisted his bag over his shoulder and left the room.

A few tears leaked from her eyes, tears she knew she couldn’t hold back much longer. She let them flow, thankful that she hadn’t applied mascara before leaving the house. 

She laid back, looking up at the ceiling, a nameless stucco white. It calmed her to look at the raised bumps, reminded her of Braille and art class.

Once she had stopped crying, she sat up and looked around.

The room was lovely, as promised. There was a balcony overlooking the woods, a large television, a sitting area with a remote-controlled fireplace, and a small bookcase, littered with the discarded vacation novels of travelers past. She stood up and headed toward the bathroom, acknowledging the large vanity and nearly endless mirrors. A jetted tub was in the corner, along with a large glass-walled shower.

It was the kind of room she got without a problem now, just a swipe of a credit card. Money was now, if not meaningless, pretty close to it. In any other circumstance, she’d jump on the bed and order room service.

Not now.

***

_Three years earlier_

Marta had been working for Harlan for about a year now. She’d met most of his family, finding them perfectly nice, if a bit strange. Walt always left her strangely unsettled, but the rest of them were fine.

She’d heard stories about Ransom, but hadn’t met him yet. She’d been told a number of things – traveling, rehab, trying a new city – but Harlan had told her the truth. 

He was in a work-release program, a house-arrest program the state had set up. His crime was nonviolent – something about check kiting, which Marta had to look up – but the state basically made him either sit at home at his apartment in Boston or pick up trash for a year. And apparently, he’d done it, his ankle monitor was gone, and he was coming to the house on Saturday.

Marta studied his picture once Harlan told her that he was coming, finding him white-boy attractive – or, as her sister called it, “good looking for a gringo.” He towered over everyone else in the picture – Harlan, his parents, Meg, and Jacob (just a little boy then, years from becoming an alt-right Internet troll). She told herself the only reason she’d studied it so hard was to recognize him when he came in the door.

As it turned out, she wouldn’t have had any trouble. He blew in the door like a hurricane. “Guess who’s back, dipshits?”

The entire family, milling about the sitting room, awkwardly laughed. Marta, standing in the corner, faded slowly back into the kitchen.

“Ransom’s here,” she breathed to Fran.

“Yeah, no shit. I heard that tornado a mile away. Also, don’t call him Ransom.”

“What? Why?”

Fran rolled her eyes and made a jerk-off motion with her hand. “The help has to call him by his first name. Hugh.”

Marta was not all together shocked at this, but remained disappointed. She had a hard time understanding bad natures – that had always been her problem – but this time, she wondered if maybe it wasn’t that he was hot.

Really hot.

Fran elbowed her in the ribs. “Can you take these out?” Fran had deputized her for the day, knowing full well food service wasn’t her job, but Linda had refused to hire caterers or anyone to pitch in.

Marta grabbed the tray of champagne flutes, the smell of Perrier-Jouet filling her nose and nauseating her. She walked into the sitting room, her back ramrod straight and eyes forward.

“Marta! What are you doing with those?” She heard chastisement in Harlan’s voice.

“Sorry. Fran needed some help in the kitchen, I offered.”

Harlan chuckled, a low sort of laugh. “That figures. You’re far too kind, my dear. Ransom, this is Marta. Marta, this is Ransom.”

Ransom then turned his gaze toward her. Sitting next to his grandfather in an armchair, he raked his eyes over her wolfishly, coming to rest on her hips. “Venezuelan?” he asked, disinterestedly.

Marta shook her head. “Actually –”

Linda cut in. “Marta, could I trouble you for some of that?” Marta turned, thankful for the distraction, and passed the flutes to Linda, Joni, and Donna. She bent down to grab an empty glass and heard a wolf whistle.

“Ransom!” Linda’s voice cut sharply through the room. “That’s quite enough.” Marta quickly made her way back through the door and into the kitchen, breathing heavily. 

She’d been offended, of course. It reminded her of that terrible neighborhood they lived in, the one where she got catcalled daily on her way to school. 

She couldn’t lie, though – it felt nice to be noticed, even if like that.

Fran looked sharply at her from across the room. “You okay there, Marta?”

Marta exhaled. “You’re right,” she said, “he’s a piece of shit.”

***

She exchanged texts with Benoit, agreeing to meet him in the lobby. She swiped on some makeup and changed out of her traveling clothes into jeans and a sweater. 

When she walked into the lobby, she suddenly wished she hadn’t done so alone.

A woman with a full shock of white hair was standing at the front desk, berating the same front desk clerk who’d been so nice to her an hour before. Marta knew before she even heard her voice that it was Linda. She melted back into the hallway before she could be seen, urgently texting Benoit to meet her there.

Which he did. “Where is she?”

“In the lobby.” Marta’s heart rate had skyrocketed, and she felt sick.

“There’s an exit back here.” She followed him through an unmarked emergency exit and out the door. 

“I can’t believe I have to spend two weeks dodging them.”

“Did you really come here alone, Marta?” They were walking across the parking lot, her hands jammed in the pockets of her jeans.

“I did. My mom had to fly back to Colombia to do some green card stuff at the embassy, and Alicia’s at school.”

“And you couldn’t ask anyone else?”

Marta was too ashamed to tell him there _was_ no one else. That he was the closest she had to a friend right now. The few friends she had had been distant since the money came into play.

“It’s a lot to ask,” she said, bending the truth as far as she could without feeling a wave of nausea.

“Well,” Benoit said, opening the door to the restaurant, “consider me your friend for hire this week.”

Before she could tell him no, they were accosted by the hostess. “Table for two?”

Benoit nodded and smiled at her. “Somewhere secluded, please.” She took them back to a booth in a corner with high-backed benches, reminiscent of her meal with Ransom.

They both slid in, as far back as possible. “Benoit, I couldn’t possibly ask you to be with me all week. It’s not fair to you.”

He scoffed. “Then it’s a good thing I didn’t ask you, but offered. I am offering my services, services you desperately need.”

She flashed back to the hotel room, sitting alone on the bed, feeling thankful for Benoit’s presence. This was exactly what she needed; why did it feel wrong?

“I just feel like I’m taking advantage of you.” She looked down into her lap, unable to meet his eyes.

“Marta.” She looked up at him, a soft smile playing at his lips. “A gentleman always knows when he’s being taken advantage of. This is not one of those occasions.” 

She smiled, gratefully. “Thank you.”

***

They each ordered something hearty, something that would sustain them for the long days ahead. They split a bottle of wine – neither of them driving anywhere that evening – and discussed how their lives had changed (and not) over the previous few months.

Benoit got the check, and they walked back to the hotel. When they got up to their floor, a bellboy was sitting in a chair at the end of the hallway. Marta exhaled, feeling more secure.

“Thank you for dinner, Benoit,” she said, walking up to her door.

“Thank you for the company, Marta. It was delightful.” He squeezed her arm. “Do you want me to go in and look around?”

She shook her head. “No. The bellboy being here is good.”

He smiled. “Good night, then. See you in the morning. Breakfast at 7:30?”

“Sounds great.” And with that, they both walked into their rooms.

Marta flicked on the light and toed off her shoes, luxuriating in the thick carpet underfoot. Two glasses of wine had relaxed her, and as she felt the stress of the day – the week – the months – seep out of her muscles, she plopped down on the bed and laid back. 

She rolled toward the bedside table to drop her phone there and froze.

On the table, a bottle of Perrier-Jouet. A single champagne flute. And a Post-It stuck to the bottle.

She didn’t realize she was shaking until she reached out to grab the note. She sat up, crossing her legs, closed her eyes, and took several deep breaths in. Out. In. Out.

She opened her eyes and reached for the note again.

_Marta –_

_Congratulations._

_-R_


End file.
